30 Seconds of Courage

His Point of View

The neon lights of the café flickered against the damp pavement as I walked past, hands shoved deep into my coat pockets. I wasn’t thinking about much—just another cold February night, another lonely walk home—until I saw her.

She was sitting alone in a corner booth, stirring a cup of coffee with slow, absentminded circles. The world outside the glass blurred around her, and for a moment, I swore she wasn’t real.

Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves, dark and glossy, like ink poured over silk. The warm glow of the cafe lights caught the gold flecks in her deep brown eyes, making them shimmer as she gazed at something unseen, lost in thought. Her lips—God, her lips—were full, painted in a subtle shade of red that made my breath catch. Her skin was smooth, kissed with a natural warmth, like she belonged somewhere drenched in sun, not under the harsh fluorescents of a late-night café. 

She wore a simple, fitted sweater in a shade of deep emerald that clung to her curves just enough to be distracting, and a delicate silver necklace rested against the hollow of her throat, catching the light when she moved. Everything about her was effortless, every detail a quiet masterpiece.

I swallowed hard.

My feet stopped moving, frozen in place, heart hammering like it wanted to break free from my ribs. Go in there. Say something. Just thirty seconds of courage. That was all I needed.

But what if she laughed? What if she looked at me like I was nothing? I wasn’t some prince charming like from the movies. Women didn’t stop to stare at me or fight over my love. I had been on a few dates sure, but they always ended up “not ready for a relationship” and everyone knows the “with you” at the end of that sentence is silent. 

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe. What if she didn’t? What if this moment was meant to happen, and I let it slip away?

The thought pushed me forward.

One step.

Then another.

Then I was inside, the door chime breaking the spell of my hesitation. The scent of coffee and warm butter wrapped around me as I walked toward her table, each step both too fast and too slow. My pulse roared in my ears.

She hadn’t noticed me yet. She was watching a man bring another woman coffee—oh, what I would do to be the man bringing her coffee every day.

I stopped beside her booth, inhaled deeply, and before I could talk myself out of it, I spoke.

"Hi."

She looked up. That same beautiful golden gaze, now staring at me. 

For a single heartbeat, as her eyes met mine, and the world narrowed to just that moment, just that space between us. 10 seconds left. 

I forced the words out before fear could steal them away.

"You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen."

Her Point of View

The soft hum of conversation swirls around the little corner café, blending with the faint jazz notes drifting from a speaker tucked into the ceiling. I sit at my usual table, a corner by the window, a half-finished cappuccino growing cold beside me as I watch the world unfold like a silent film. I like it here—the scent of freshly ground coffee beans, the faint clatter of spoons against ceramic cups, the warmth of neon lights filtering through the large window, casting delicate patterns on the floor.

People-watching has become my quiet indulgence, an escape from the monotony of my own life. I don’t mind being alone—not really—but there’s something about observing life from the sidelines that feels safer, less complicated. I watch couples lean into each other; their heads close as they whisper secrets only they can hear. I smile at the children tugging at their parents’ hands, faces sticky with crumbs from oversized muffins. And sometimes, just sometimes, I let myself dream.

Love, the kind I’ve seen in every cheesy rom-com I’ve binged on quiet Friday nights, always seems to happen to other people. The grand gestures, the serendipitous meetings, the slow dances under fairy lights—it all feels like fiction. I’ve never been the girl who turns heads when she walks into a room. Never the one who catches someone’s eye across a crowded café. No, I’m the girl who sits quietly, sipping her coffee and wondering what it would feel like to be loved like that—like the movies promise.

The bell above the door chimes, pulling me from my thoughts. A man walks in, glancing around nervously. He’s tall, with blonde hair that curls slightly at the nape of his neck. His hands fidget with the strap of a messenger bag slung across his chest, and I can almost hear the anxious thud of his heart from across the room. First date, I guess. The jittery energy, the hopeful but uncertain smile—I’ve seen it a dozen times before. Not wanting to intrude on his nerves, I shift my gaze.

My eyes land on a couple seated near the counter. The man, dressed in a soft, gray sweater, returns to the table with two cups of coffee, carefully setting one in front of the woman. Her face lights up—not just a polite smile, but the kind that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners, as though the simple act of being handed coffee by him is the best part of her day. He leans down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and she closes her eyes, soaking in the moment like sunlight on a cold morning.

My chest tightens. It’s not jealousy—not really. It’s longing, soft and bittersweet, like the last sip of coffee gone cold. I wonder what it would be like to be loved with that kind of devotion—a 30 second world-stopping romance from the movies, something that seems so cheesy but turns into everyone's favorite love story. The kind built on morning coffees and shared smiles, on knowing glances across crowded rooms and forehead kisses that speak louder than words.

“Hi”

I looked up to see the nervous man who had entered the café now standing at the edge of my booth. His dirty blonde hair tousled, sun-kissed strands catching the warm light in uneven waves. His green eyes, sharp and restless, flicker like sunlight filtering through forest leaves—vivid, yet shadowed by an edge of unease. Broad shoulders square his frame, giving him an air of strength, though the subtle tension in his posture betrays a mind in motion.

A tiny sheen of sweat beads along his forehead, glistening just enough to hint at nerves or heat. His fidgety fingers—long, calloused, and quick—dance restlessly, tugging at the hem of his shirt, tapping against his thigh, as though movement is the only thing keeping his courage intact and his thoughts from spiraling.

Before I could smile and say hello, he spoke again, making the whole world stop. 

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”